


Opal

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Female Bard, Ficlet, POV Second Person, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:05:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5437724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You ferry the Elfking home; he’s full of surprises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amare_Deansgate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amare_Deansgate/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for abesottedlass’ “thranduil/reader” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

You wait at the dock, breathless, hardly able to believe your eyes. The king of elves has gestured you still, and you obey like you never would for your own Master. Alfrid scowls beside you—always does when you pay any other man attention. The rest of the elves from the royal delegation duck away with elegant bows, disappearing through Laketown’s creaking streets. But the king comes straight to _you_ , his silver robes glistening like the stars themselves. 

He’s beautiful. He wears his crown made of branches, like the flower-circlets Tilda’s made you on the rare occasion she could get her hands on fresh things. But his is masterful, artful. His blond-white hair cascades down his broad shoulders, grey-blue eyes flickering over you on his approach. He stops just short of you, close enough that you can _smell_ the woods on him—so sharply different than the rest of the decay around him. He greets, “Bard,” with a respectful duck of his head, as though _he’s_ the one that’s honoured.

“King Thranduil,” you return, proud of how sturdy your voice is. You can’t imagine why he would speak to _you_ of all people and are surprised that he remembers your name—encounters have always been brief and cordial. You’ve had occasion to join his elves on the hunt around your borders in times of stray orcs, and you’ve ferried his barrels, and, infrequently, you’ve been present in the Master’s halls when he arrived—never for anything good, though the Master’s twisted threats always fall away under Thranduil’s steady gaze. He’s drawled before that he finds it _amusing_ that the Master would lock up this paltry town’s greatest archer. 

You don’t agree with the praise, but you treasure it all the same. Now Thranduil’s eyes sweep along the dock and into your rusting barge. “Would you mind a passenger?” he asks, with a thin smile that shows he must know how unlikely you are to deny him.

Only your shock delays your, “Please.” You step aside, gesturing into the now-empty boat, and Alfrid, as though a shadow withering under Thranduil’s light, slinks back. He would’ve stopped you, as he always does, but he has a tenth of your bravery and a hundredth of an elf’s, and he wouldn’t _dare_ cause trouble with Thranduil around. Thranduil steps gracefully into your boat, rich robes trailing along the frosty planks, like a swan descending into clouds. 

Then he holds out a hand for you. With a hitch of breath, you lay your palm in his. Yours is cracked, calloused, worn from years of hard labour, but his is magnificently smooth. And he’s _warm_. He helps you into your own barge, and you try not to stare too long or give away your blush. He has better ways of returning home and surely has guards. But then, he’s a great warrior, and he can take care of himself. Why he would want to in such a tattered hovel of a boat, you have no idea. 

You stroll to the end of it as best you can, untying the knot that holds it ashore and casting off, then returning to take an oar and nudge your way out of the ‘harbour,’ if it can even be called that. Alfrid, hidden in the shadows of a fallen building, scowls as you go. You’re too nervous to relish his irritation.

It takes a few strokes out, but then the wind takes over—slow, but steady, strong and deathly _cold_ this time of year. The current does the rest; you know them off by heart. You make your way to the oar fastened to the back—a makeshift steering device that barely holds together—and stand at the ready to navigate the lake. 

Thranduil moves to follow, his hair seeming to waft more from his own style than the wind. He stands so close that his raw scent rolls into you, forcing your eyes to close for half a moment. Anyone else, you would advise to sit, but it’s clear he knows what he’s doing. He stands as steadily as you, just far more _handsome_. This boat isn’t anywhere near good enough for him. But you’re already leaving the ‘safety’ of Laketown, and it’s too late to go back, and you couldn’t shoo him away if you wanted to. 

“These waters have some beauty to them,” he muses, when you’re a little ways out, and there’s nothing to your ears but the wind and his deep voice. Eyeing the black surface, you can, perhaps, see what he does, though you’ve rarely though it—they’re too icy, too deadly. You nod your head. Another few minutes of silent reverence, and he asks, “Are you cold?”

Freezing. All the furs you can afford go to the children—your own coat is barely holding on. It’s worn thin and ratty along the edges. You admit, “Yes,” and try to watch the lake instead of him. 

He steps closer, so near now that you can _feel_ him. His broad chest is all along your back, his toned legs bracketing your own. One hand falls to your waist to steady you, firm against your hip, but insolated too much through your coat and trousers. You have the sudden want of _skin on skin_ —he’s so _beautiful_ —how could you want for anything else? You might be too rugged for him—stubble still remaining and nothing to be done about certain parts—but would it matter to an elf? But then, you remind yourself, you’re a mortal barge-runner and he’s a _king_ ; your body’s moot. 

He doesn’t seem to deem you as unworthy as you do yourself, because he dips his head next to your ear and purrs along the shell, “I have warmth to spare.”

You lick your lips and tug on the oar, turning the boat around a particularly jagged cut of ice. He’s like a safe fire behind you, warding off the cold. You wish you had more to say but can’t think of anything. 

Finally, you manage, “Is it a long walk on the other side to your halls?” You rarely go far up the river. You’ve never been in the woods. Too many mouths to feed to risk it. But of course you’ve _dreamed_...

“Yes,” Thranduil answers, “Though it would seem less so with company.”

Somehow, you would’ve thought an elf subtler.

When the waters are quiet enough for you to look around, you do. You search his face, sure you must be misunderstanding, but his smile is sure and his eyes are kind, though fiery. As though he hears your question, he answers softly, “I knew Girion, once. You are a worthy heir, and I find myself often wondering, Bard of Laketown, why it is the Master I must discuss our treaties with, and not you.”

Flattered more than you can say, you bitterly explain, “Times have changed.”

He sighs and seems to agree. His eyes drift aside, along the water again, and you check your heading. The fog has now completely swallowed up the town—it’s just the two of you, like some frigid fairy tale you’re much too old for. You wonder briefly how old he is and how long he’s been _alone_ —surely more so than you. Then he breaks the silence again, murmuring, “I still like to cling to some goodness in this world... like wine, for instance.”

You snort before you can stop yourself. Half a dozen rumours come to mind of what exactly goes on in the Elfking’s halls, but you wisely don’t say a one. Because he seems to wait for you, you say, “I’ve never had anything like the brews you must hold, but I imagine they’re wonderful.”

Without missing a beat, Thranduil purrs, “Would you like to?”

You look at him again to reply, “I would love to.”

He smiles. Then he gathers one of your cold hands in his, and he brings it to his mouth to kiss your knuckles, spreading warmth all over.

You lift up on your toes for a proper one.


End file.
